The Princess of Burundi - Kjell Eriksson [31]
Sammy Nilsson and his colleagues were forced to take up the slack.
Lennart Jonsson was woken up by someone banging on the door. The ringer had stopped working over half a year ago. He knew what it was all about. In some ways he was surprised that it had taken so long for the police to turn up.
He opened the door, but immediately turned around and walked back into the apartment.
“Just have to take a whiz,” he yelled.
Sammy Nilsson stepped inside. The air was stale, musty. He waited in the hall. He heard the sound of the toilet being flushed. Next to the mirror there were three framed prints by Carl Larsson. Sammy sensed that Lennart had not chosen them himself. Two coats hung on hooks under the hat shelf. If you overlooked the pungent grocery bags filled with empty beer cans by the door, the sparsely furnished entrance hall looked not unlike the waiting room of Sammy’s dentist, which was located in a 1950s downtown apartment building.
Lennart came out of the bathroom, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, half untucked. He was barefoot and his black hair stood on end. Their eyes met. For a moment Sammy felt as if he were visiting an old friend, and he had the impression that Lennart was thinking the same thing.
“I’m sorry about your brother.”
Lennart nodded, breaking eye contact. When he raised his eyes his expression had changed.
“Should we sit down?”
Lennart nodded again and gestured toward the kitchen, letting Sammy go first.
“What do you think?” Sammy said as a way to begin.
Lennart snorted. He removed a beer from the table.
“You were the one who knew him best. Who wanted to see Little John dead?”
“I don’t know,” Lennart said. “What do you know?”
“We’re trying to establish a clear picture of John’s life, what he was doing these past few months, this past week, the day before yesterday. You know the story. We’re still gathering pieces of the puzzle.”
“I’ve been thinking,” Lennart said. “But I haven’t been able to come up with anyone who would’ve wanted to knock off my bro. He was clean—had been for years.”
He gave Sammy a look as if to say: And don’t you try to pin some shit on him now.
Sammy Nilsson went through the usual questions. Lennart gave short answers. Once, he interrupted himself, walked over to the kitchen counter to get a banana, and consumed it in seconds. He then offered a banana to Sammy, who took one but set it down on the table.
“There’s one guy who spent a lot of time with John. Micke Andersson,” Lennart said. “Have you talked to him?”
“We have,” Sammy said, but without mentioning that Micke had contacted the police the night before.
“There aren’t a lot of us,” Lennart said, and Sammy assumed he was talking about John’s limited circle of friends.
He fetched another banana and ate it just as quickly.
“Some kind of banana diet?” Sammy asked.
Lennart shook his head. He looked thoughtful. Sammy restrained himself from asking further questions.
“The way I live, the people who are closest to you are the most important. Others can rat on you, betray you, but not a brother. Not John. We’ve always helped each other out.”
“For better and for worse, perhaps?”
Lennart snorted again.
“There are some things you’ll never get,” he said. “Why would I trust anyone else?”
No; why would he? Sammy thought.
“Sometimes you have to,” he said.
Lennart smiled faintly.
“Who’s the ‘you’ of ‘there are some things you’ll never get’?” Sammy asked.
“All of you,” Lennart said.
Sammy looked at him. He had heard enough. He knew what would follow—a harangue about the downtrodden members of society.
“When I played Ping-Pong in high school and won a match against the teacher he threw his racket at me. He had just hit a worthless serve, and when I bent over to pick up the ball he threw his racket at me with full force. It caught me behind the ear. Do you want to see the scar?”
Sammy shook his head.
“I was in a remedial class and Ping-Pong was the only thing I was good at. We used to play two, three hours a day.”
“Getting back to John for a moment,” Sammy said. “How were things at home?